The Story So Far...It's a long one, make a cup of tea and grab a fondant fancy...

One Saturday in April I had one episode of a bleeding right nipple. I'd been having a shower, doing the whole 'new boyfriend coming over therefore I need to look fabulous without looking like I've made a massive effort' thing. Neat bikini line so that he thinks you were born with a tiny triangle 'down there', toenails manicured to perfection, hair from a Pantene advert. When I was drying myself, there it was. A bit of blood. About a teaspoon, if that...just there, coming out of my right nipple. I wiped it away and it was gone. I thought I'd just been a bit too over enthusiastic with the net curtain scrubber thing and though no more about it. Boyf came over. Good weekend was had by all.
A week later while tea-ing at the Fartwood with my best B-girl I mentioned it, and since she works in the field of breasticles she advised me to get it checked out. I had no other symptoms. No lumps, no tenderness, no discharge. Nothing. It didn't bleed again so I assumed it would be something and nothing and I'd be alright.
Went to my GP, the lovely Dr M, got out the baps, he couldn't see any asymmetry or nipple problems, or feel a lump. But referred me to the breast clinic to 'be on the safe side'.
So, 4 weeks after that, off I trot to the local breast clinic where I don a cape that looks like a dishrag and Mr W the consultant has a feel around and also says he can't feel a lump but since I'm over 35 I should have a mammogram. I work in the medical field and know that even if it hurts like hell I will have to be stoical and pretend it doesn't. I have my boobs flattened then make my way back to see the delightful Dr D for the diagnosis. The mammogram is clear, but he wants to do an ultrasound to be sure. I'm not worried, this is standard procedure I'm sure.
So, there we are while I'm in the crappy cape again having my scan, B-girl has come with me and is sitting in the corner, Big B is at the bottom of the bed. We're talking about how it's better to come to a hospital that you don't work at; I can't imagine my good chum and colleague Dr S having to grapple (hardly, I have modest breast tissue, but grapple is such a good word) with my baps and then being able to look me in the eye over the Fox's Biscuit Assortment, when Dr D puts a hand on my leg and says the words "I'm sorry, there is a lump." He points it out. I nod. I do ultrasound for a living. I'm still not worried. B-girl looks pale. Big B puts a hand on my leg too. Then I have a big needle stuck in my boob, for a core biopsy. I don't feel a thing. I go into babbling mode. Still not worried. I see Mr W afterwards and the breast care nurse J, who is all in pink. People keep looking at me like I should be crying. Or at the very least shocked or worried.
I get told to come back a week later for the results. A week later I hear the words 'benign' and 'B1'. Both v good. BUT, and there is always a but in life, I'm given the option of having the lump removed and biopsied again to 'be on the safe side.' It's either that or have another biopsy, or leave the damn lump there for 3 months and see what it does. I go for the lumpectomy. The only thing I'm now worried about is having a general anaesthetic. I'm a GA virgin. I have to have a wire localisation at one hospital, then B-girl is to drive me to another hospital for the lump removal bit of it.
The lumpectomy is scheduled for two weeks later or so. The 3rd of July. A Friday. And my day off work. Bum. I survive the GA. I get a nice cheese and Branston sandwich and a lovely cup of tea afterwards. Everyone is very nice to me. I could almost enjoy it. I'm still not worried.
Two weeks off work follow whilst I recuperate. Watching daytime telly is like Groundhog Day. Last year, in November, I was off work for a different reason. If I was a celebrity it would be called 'Nervous Exhaustion' and I'd have been packed off to The Priory. Being a pleb I get a sicknote which details I'm off with a 'low mood' (which makes me sound no more than a bit fed up)and a prescription for Prozac. Jeremy Kyle, This Morning, Loose Women...I'm sure they're exactly the same every day. All the guests that were on Loose Women in November start to show up again in July. Jenny Agutter. Steven K Amos. Everyone else. I can't drive yet. I'm fast losing the will to live. Still not worried. Although by this time boyf has possibly left the country and we are officially over. This upsets me more than the looming threat of potential carcinoma. I'm still not worried about the boob thing.
A week after the op Mr W's secretary phones me to say that I will be discussed at the MDT that afternoon (I almost feel important) but that Mr W is off the week after so will I see another surgeon for my results on the following Monday. Fine, I say. If it gets me away from Loose Women I'll go anywhere and see anyone. B-girl offers to meet me there and my sister-in-law drives me.
The ubiquitous cape is donned once again and a nice young man comes into the room with breast care nurse D. There is no mention of the word 'benign' this time, and I just about register the word 'cancer'. Oh. I don't really react. I just want to get out of the cape. I nod a lot and listen to my options. Wide Local Excision (removing more of the cancerous area and some normal breast tissue) and radiotherapy or mastectomy. Mastectomy. People look at me like I should be crying, but I still don't. Weeks later I still haven't. I'm invited (invited!) to come back and see Mr W a week later to have a chat about my decision. I can't really remember what was said. I think radiotherapy was mentioned. And receptor testing. And the oncologist. Nobody says chemotherapy until I see Mr W. Chemotherapy is rough; Mrs P (mother) has had 3 lots of it. I don't want chemotherapy and decide that if having the mastectomy (and the removal of axillary nodes for further testing to see if the cancer has spread) means I might avoid it I'll do it. Besides, WLE would mean hardly any breast tissue would be left anyway, so they might as well take the lot. That way I can have a booby job (reconstruction) in 12 months and get 'jiggled' so that I have two boobs the same and more importantly BIGGER than the ones I had. Result.
I go home and tell everyone I've got cancer. They all seem more worried than me. When is it appropriate to start worrying?
The mastectomy is scheduled for Friday 21st August. That's three weeks off. I decide to go back to work. And to get a cat.